Not Your Fault
by La petit mort
Summary: A frustrated artist finds temporary inspiration after commiting an act of violence. Prompt. M for Violence.


A frustrated artist finds himself temporarily inspired after committing an act of violence.

The soft scratches of lead pencil on thick paper filled the room. Eyes flicked from form to paper. Form to paper. Form to paper. His hand jumped from one side of the pad to another as he tried with increasing desperation to capture the beauty before him.

The soft ticking of the clock in the corner was the only indication of time passing. Beads of sweat were slowly forming on his furrowed brow and his pale button-down stuck to his lithe body as clumps of his ashy blond hair stuck to his forehead.

Tick Tock

Tick Tock

Hands began to shake.

Tick tock

Tick tock

Lines on the paper became untidy and scribbled.

Letting loose a roar of frustration he flung his pad to the ground and slumped forward, his elbows braced on his knees, his head hung low, the very picture of the forlorn.

The beautiful woman on the futon raised her head, her russet curls cascading down the side of her neck.

"My love, is all not well?" Her perfect face was contorted to a frown of concern, her brow marked by a furrowing of her brows, her cupid's bow lips pulled down in a from. He did not like it. It did not suit her.

He stood up and walked to the beauty, the angel lounging so casually in his studio. Smiling softly down at her he gently cupped the side of her face, secretly reveling in the silky smoothness he found there. Sighing when she leaned into his touch, he answered her softly spoken question.

"No my angel, all is not well. I have lost my muse."

Once more her red lips turned down into a frown.

She withdrew her head from his hand and immediately his hand felt cold. He watched as she looked down at herself, her delicate fingers brushing the fabric of her dress, the layers of gossamer, colored like the finest richest wine, so light it seemed to float. She nervously picked at the cram silk beneath that clung to her form. She nervously fingered a ringlet as she demurely peered up at him. Normally he was captured by the raw emotion in her eyes, the way they took how she felt and magnified the intensity through eyes as silver as tempered steel. The eyes of Athena herself, as he often told her.

"Is it my fault? Does my appearance no longer suit you?"

Normally he would let out a peal of laughter at the mere thought that this creature, this goddess among men could possibly disappoint in any way imaginable.

But today was different.

Today he felt…small. Empty. Abandoned. Where was the fire, the sparks that erupted inside him when he saw this woman? Where was the abandon that came to him, the burning need to capture her flawlessness on paper?

He knelt beside her, bending his head to her ear.

"No, my pet, my sunshine. It is not your fault."

His hand trailed down her dress, light as a butterfly's touch. As he brushed across the wine colored material, he was struck with how pleased he was at the contrast of it to her alabaster skin. So pale. She was always so pale. And this color rather suited her. Like spilt wine on a white tablecloth.

Or spilt blood on marble.

A lovely contrast of the dark and the light.

He imagined what she would look like if he painted her in this dress. The gossamer would flow down her body like wine. Or perhaps she would simple pose with wine. After all, he had painted her nude before, not long ago. Perhaps she would lay on a cream sheet for him. Perhaps she would let him cover her with wine, like a thin, fine blanket. Perhaps…perhaps she would pose with blood.

He jerked back from her as the thought flitted across his mind. But that must be the drugs. Like many other artist in the quest for la musa finale, he had tried many an opiate. So had she. Together they inhaled the drugs and let them take them away to a land where there were only masterpieces, where she was the canvas and he the brush.

The lure of the drugs called him. He sent the girl a secret smile and looked toward a cupboard where it was kept. She understood immediately, following him to the piles of pillows in the corner of the room where they conducted their business.

He took their beloved and well-worn bottle from the corner of the cupboard and their hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case beside it. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and stretched his hand out for the lady's hand. He selected a place in the fleshy crook of her forefinger and thumb, where no one would see due to her silk gloves. They gazed into each other's eyes as he slowly inserted the needle into her delicate flesh and watched as her eyes became hazy and unfocused.

Once sure she was safely within the opiates loving embrace, she rolled back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the soft cushions with a long sigh of satisfaction.

His head lolled back, too full of the magnificent colors to lift. He blearily opened his hooded eyes, taking in the vibrant swirls of color.

The air was shimmering, swirls of brown and carmine and ultraviolet where the floor used to be.

The floor was no longer solid.

He was going to sink.

Frantically he swung his head to the side and attempted to get up when he saw the glint of steel. A slow blink cleared his vision somewhat and he saw laying on the table his palette knife.

Slowly he lifted it up by its dark wooden handle. It had been a gift. From the woman. She heard his complaints of being without the tool so necessary for mixing the paint on his newest work of genius. No expense was spared on the tool with its polished cherry wood handle and its gold inlay. She had even opted to get him a tapered one, with a sharper point than most.

The combination of the drug coursing through his veins and the gratitude pumping in his heart at the sight of the instrument so well-used through the years prompted him to sit up, dazed and dizzy.

There she was. The alabaster goddess, splayed out across several plush cushions. In this vulnerable state, inebriated and weak, she was beautiful. No, not beautiful, flawless. No, perfect, exquisite, magnificent, awe-inspiring.

He slowly made his way over to her, palette knife in hand, almost forgotten in favor of gazing upon such beauty.

Once at her side, he heavily flopped down and began to stroke her auburn waves with the hand still holding the forgotten knife. He moved his hand to her face, tracing her perfect features. She smiled softly, enjoying the feather light touch of his reverent fingers.

In a daze, he remembered the knife still in his hand. With its tapered, rounded tip he traced the delicate curve of her jaw. Lightly he dragged the knife over her thrumming pulse. He could hear the thudding of her heart, gentle and calm.

Thump Thump.

Thump Thump.

In a trance, he dragged the knife lower, pressing harder now. In the wake of the blade there appeared a thin red line. Blood rising to the surface of the skin, not yet hitting the air, only to subside in a manner of seconds.

The knife was poised above her heart now, in the valley of her breasts. He was no longer controlling the knife, he found. Rather, the knife was controlling him, pulling his hand to wherever it wanted to rest.

His verdant gaze flicked to her face, her eyes still closed in the raptures of the drug.

Swiftly he sat up, decision already made in the depths of his mind. If she was no use as a muse in life, despite her beauty, then …

He bent his head and placed a soft kiss to the place chosen by the Blade, the cruel Blade that controlled him.

Perhaps she would be of more use to him...

The Blade began to dig into her supple flesh, dimpling the skin but not yet piercing it.

Perhaps she would be more useful…

"In death."

As the fatal words slipped from his lips, his eyes wide and frenzied, he leaned with all his weight on the Blade, piercing her skin. No. No, it was not him who pushed. It was the Blade that pulled, dragging him down into the abyss.

An undignified screech pierced the air, ending in a bloody gasp, the crimson liquid dripping down the sides of her mouth.

Her eyes, those stormy expressive eyes, widened and snapped to her lover, her friend.

But he was not looking at her eyes, those haunting eyes asking why.

Rather, they were gazing at where the Blade had disappeared into her creamy flesh. Wondrously he slowly pulled the cruel, stained instrument from her chest, gazing at the thick dark crimson liquid welling up at the sight of the wound.

Beautiful.

The way it contrasted with her pale, pale skin was ethereal.

Reverently his eyes snapped to the Blade, through whom he had seen such fallen beauty. The Blade was his Muse, showing him sights he would have never seen otherwise.

Decisively he moved the Blade (or the Blade moved him) to another point just below the ribs. Briefly he stopped to bless the spot with a long, wet kiss, half to soothe the dying beauty beneath and half in preparation of the spot for his new Muse. Impatiently the Blade poised over the spot once more. Obediently he let the Blade pull him in once more. Her soft flesh dimpled again, easily giving way to the unyielding Muse.

Another gasp wracked her body and her hand reached up to fist at his shirt, begging with her eyes, as words were lost to her now, to stop.

But he was not looking at her eyes.

Too far gone to turn back now, he let the tempered instrument drag his hand down, down, down, past her navel, relishing in the trail of lifeblood left behind.

Slowly he pulled the knife out again and poised it over the rounded curve of her shoulder and repeated the torturous process: kiss, push, drag, pull. He moved to various parts of her body. Her thigh. Her forearm. Again to her stomach. Her calf. Over and over until alabaster was almost completely covered by dark red silk. Kiss. Push. Drag. Pull.

Tired now, from the effort of kissing, pushing, dragging, pulling he let the Muse slip from his hands and fell back to the pillows, shying away from the bloody goddess, so as to not disturb the image.

But he could not sleep. The Muse called to him and demanded he capture this beauty lest it slip away. And who was he to deny it?

The alabaster goddess, on pillows of cream and the purest white was disarmingly lovely. Before brush touched to paper, he briefly pause to rip away red gossamer layer of the dress, as it was a mockery of what the Blade had made for him. Careful not to smudge the glorious form, he disposed of the gossamer, and sat to forever capture the image of the fallen angel.

Smiling softly as the gentle flutter of her heart ceased to beat.

Thump Thump.

Thump Thump.

Thump.

"Not your fault."


End file.
